


you don't have to say i love you (to say i love you)

by akaparalian



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8504269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: It is 7:46 AM on Wednesday, and Damian very carefully sits down in his seat (front row, just to the right of the podium), every fibre of his being aware that Drake is sitting two seats away. This is -- surely this is statistically significant. From five seats away to two, all at once -- and after the coffee, and -- 
Or, Damian Wayne Tries His Best (TM).
Or or, the "The Start of it All" Remix.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Start of it All](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8210516) by [Lilviscious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilviscious/pseuds/Lilviscious). 



> Title is from Troye Sivan's 'for him.' Damian Wayne is a space toaster and I love him. I just feel like that's something that needs to be said about this fic.
> 
> I had a ton of fun with this challenge! Hopefully everyone's happy with the results. ^^

The coffee, of course, was always supposed to be for himself. 

Damian starts his mornings off the exact same way every single time: a double-shot Americano with just a dusting of nutmeg on top, a bagel, and a withering glare for whoever is unlucky enough to be in front of him in the line at Starbucks on that particular day. The bagel he dispatches while he waits for his drink to be brewed; the coffee he drinks once he gets to his first lecture.

The problem, then, occurs once he _does_ get to lecture, because the most incredible creature sits five chairs to his left (front row, adjacent to the wall; Damian prefers front row, just to the right of the podium, himself). 

Damian is… well, he is the son of one of the most respected forensic psychologists in the world and the heir to a very powerful _organization_ of the type that helps keep his father employed. He is more than used to beautiful, influential people; for God’s sake, he’s had appearances drilled into his head so well that even now he wears a _tie_ to class every day, which stands out quite strikingly against a background of Greek t-shirts and sweatpants. It’s become more and more evident, however, that he’s failed to factor quite a number of things into his estimation of beauty.

For example: he never considered under-eye bags and two-day hair appealing in the least, but, well. It hasn’t exactly deterred him any.

Timothy Jackson Drake (age twenty-one) sits five chairs to his left (approximately fifteen feet, though he hasn’t, of course, been able to measure precisely) every morning; he arrives promptly fifteen minutes before the lecture begins (7:45 AM) and leaves very quickly once it’s done (usually out the door by 9:01). Based on the deteriorating state of his personal bearing throughout the week, Damian’s best guess is that he averages 6 hours of sleep per night on the weekends and 2 hours on weeknights.

The problem, at present, is that he’s usually decently rested on Monday. Comparatively. But, as Damian glances subtly to his left, clutching his coffee cup in a grip that is absolutely not, in any way, uncontrolled and/or an indication of nervousness, it’s clear enough to _anyone_ , let alone the only son of Dr. Bruce Wayne, that Drake is currently teetering very close to the edge.

He’s shaking just slightly, in that way people only do when they’re _very_ sleep deprived or else hopped up on stimulants; a surreptitious glance to the empty can of Monster at Drake’s feet leads to the conclusion that in this case the answer is probably ‘both,’ Damian looks down at his coffee, regrets that his bagel is long gone, sneaks another glance at Drake, looks back at the coffee, weighs the costs versus the benefits:

It doesn’t look like _more_ caffeine is really the answer.

He has spoken to Drake precisely three times, none of which have gone especially well. He is, as Damian understands (and Damian has been raised too well to _not_ understand), a double-major in computer science and forensics, with a minor in psychology and an interest in coding more intelligent and advanced criminal databases. All of this to say: Damian’s father is his department head and teaches many of his classes, and thus Drake spends a lot of time in his office. Damian spends time in his father’s office when he doesn’t really know what better to do, which is… more often than he had once expected. The last time they met, they didn’t even exchange any words, but their shoulders brushed as they passed in the doorway, Damian exiting his father’s office while Drake entered, and something in the general vicinity of his stomach dropped at the contact and stayed down for the rest of the day.

However, the glare that Drake had sent as their shoulders touched had been… less than pleasant.

It’s strange to give coffee to a person who, according to the available evidence, doesn’t like you very much at all, just because they look tired. Probably. Damian will, under duress, admit that he’s not so much an expert on _actual_ human interaction as he is an expert on human observation, but he’s relatively certain he’s correct in this instance.

On the other hand, 

Drake has his computer open, and, despite all evidence pointing to the likelihood that at any given instant he is likely to keel over completely, he is typing at a speed which Damian frankly finds terrifying, his gaze slightly unfocused but intense, his mouth marred by a tight frown.

His eyes (blue -- clear blue, very striking once you get close, which is one benefit to not actually going near him) are beginning to droop, and his shaking is decreasing in tempo; it seems that perhaps his latest energy drink is beginning to wear off. 

Damian is certainly no stranger to all-nighters, high-pressure assignments, or being a workaholic. Sacrificing a few gray hairs and a few days off your lifespan for the sake of staying caffeinated enough to complete your work -- well. He’s relatively certain _he_ ’d be grateful for the extra stimulant. Besides, isn’t that just the epitome of the college experience?

He swallows and hesitates for just a fraction of a second -- which is, admittedly, a fraction of a second more than he normally would. Then he walks five seats over (six steps, counting the extra step to come to a stop) and thrusts the coffee in Drake’s general direction and says, “You look like you could use this more than I do this morning.”

There are several seconds of dead silence, punctuated only by the low-level background noise of the few other students already in their seats snuffling and shifting and tapping on their phones. Drake has actually stopped typing like his life depends on it, and instead is staring straight at the coffee, his fingers twitching slightly. His eyes slowly slide up, away from the cup, to land on Damian instead, and Damian valiantly resists the urge to say something snippy, dump the coffee on Drake’s head, and run out of this lecture hall, never to return. 

Then, very, very slowly, Drake reaches out a hand and takes the cup.

He takes a long swig of coffee, his eyes never leaving Damian’s, and Damian more or less mildly wants to scream. But then something shifts behind Drake’s eyes, ever so slightly -- if Damian weren’t staring back at him so hard his eyes are practically watering, he’d have missed it -- and he lowers the cup and sets it on the desk next to his laptop and says, his voice rough and scratchy, “Thanks.”

All Damian can do is nod, try his best to convince himself he’s definitely not blushing, console himself with the fact that even if he _is_ , his complexion is probably hiding it (at least, that’s what Mother always said), and sit down.

\--- 

He had almost, _almost_ convinced himself that nothing had really changed. Maybe Drake had glanced at him from something like wariness for the rest of the lecture on Monday (every six minutes, like clockwork). Maybe he had nodded at Damian on the way out of the room, and actually returned his half-choked “See you.” Maybe he had nodded at him from across the quad yesterday, from a safe distance (at least fifty yards, but who’s counting). But now… now _this._

It is 7:46 AM on Wednesday, and Damian very carefully sits down in his seat (front row, just to the right of the podium), every fibre of his being aware that Drake is sitting _two seats_ away. This is -- surely this is statistically significant. From five seats away to two, all at once -- and after the coffee, and -- 

He has a terrible time trying to pay attention to the lecture. He’ll have to corner someone after class and ask to borrow their notes. Asking Drake is out of the question; the _last_ thing Damian wants is for him to think any part of this is a lot to somehow take advantage of him and/or his (from what Damian can see sitting _two seats away_ ) horrendously messy but very thorough notes.

Then again, it might actually be a good thing that he can’t really process most of what’s going on. From the few words here and there that he _does_ manage to catch as the professor drones on and _on_ , the day’s lecture covers the different forms of love. Despite his parentage, psychology is at times perhaps his least favorite subject, and this is a perfectly apt example of why; the distinction between eros and agape is _not_ helpful at the present time. For God’s sake, he can hardly even stand to hear the words when Drake is so close at hand. He very firmly tells himself that his occaisional shivers are just because the room is a bit cooler than normal, with the changing weather, though he’s quite aware that the thermostat is no different today than it ever has been (seventy degrees even, though it often feels more like 65).

Somehow, he makes it through class alive, and between one moment and the next the period is over and everyone is filing out of the lecture hall. Drake is up and gone before he even realizes, and, for once, Damian is one of the last to hastily gather his belongings and all but scurry from the room. He tries to ignore the amused look his professor shoots him as he passes.

\---

He spends the rest of the day Wednesday and all of Thursday wrapped up in plotting. His father clearly notices, but says nothing, opting instead to just quirk an eyebrow at him while he mutters to himself and look vaguely amused. Damian has no doubt that he has at least _some_ idea of what’s going on -- he’s long since given up on the idea that his father doesn’t know essentially everything about everything that happens at Gotham University -- but he knows the matter will be left well enough alone. 

...at least as far as Father is concerned. Dick Grayson is not so considerate.

“It’s just that TAs talk, little D,” he says, grinning and reclining in Damian’s chair in Damian’s room while Damian is trying to _work_ (or, well, trying not to slowly drive himself insane thinking about Drake, anyway), “I mean, really, something juicy happens in _one_ section of _one_ class at eight in the morning and I guarantee every grad has heard about it by six.”

“There was no ‘juicy’ of any kind,” Damian hisses back, trying to pretend that he’s only miffed about the fact that Dick being in his chair means he has to sit on the bed, which is _not_ an appropriate place to do work. “Drake was dead on his feet. I gave him coffee. That’s _all_. I know you like to joke, but I am capable of human emotions, you know.”

“That’s exactly my _point_!” Dick crows, and Damian resists the urge to drive his own head through the wall. Barely. “I just -- wow, Tim is _not_ what I thought of when I pictured your type. You have good taste, baby bro.”

They’ve been down the ‘I’m not your baby bro’ road one too many times before, so Damian doesn’t even bother. That alone, he thinks, should be noted as a sign of personal growth. 

“He’s not my ‘type,’ because I don’t have a ‘type,’ and also because he’s not my anything,” is all he manages to get out before Dick physically reaches out to shush him. The rest of the sentence was supposed to be “He’s barely more than an acquaintance, but he’s one of Father’s favorite students, and he really looked like he needed the coffee, and this is all perfectly normal,” but on second thought, none of that even does a particularly good job of convincing _him_ , so maybe it’s just as well that Dick takes over the talking instead.

“Look, Damian,” he says, voice suddenly both softer and more serious, as if the switch from nicknames to full name wasn’t signal enough. “I’m really not trying to, you know, make you uncomfortable or anything. I’m just really happy for you, you know? You don’t tend to… show a lot of interest in people outside of your immediate family.”

“I have Colin!” Damian says defensively, and Grayson actually has the audacity to roll his eyes.

“Yes, you have _one_ friend, who you’ve known since elementary school, and everyone else you know because of me or because of Bruce. I’m just… I’m serious, Dami, I’m really happy for you.”

Damn it all, the bastard _knows_ Damian’s incapable of being properly scathing when he pulls out the sincerity like that. He doesn’t even feel up to pointing out that there’s no real reason to be happy for him, yet, just one coffee and one perfectly innocuous move that probably means less than nothing. He settles on glowering instead.

Dick just beams back at him. “See?” he says. “You really are starting to open up.”

\---

Honestly, he doesn’t even know why he’s hesitating _now_ ; he’s standing on the doorstep, there’s no going back now. He’s analyzed and overanalyzed this decision -- there’s nothing left to think about, really. Still. Damian teeters on the edge for just a moment, the bland apartment door before him seemingly as insurmountable as any challenge he’s ever faced.

Ridiculous. He knocks, three times, very sharply, and then takes half a step back, the paper sack clutched too-tightly in his other hand rustling slightly.

There’s a brief silence, and then the muffled sound of someone coming to the door, the gentle impression of footsteps. Then a _click_ , and then there’s Drake, looking… not quite as tired as he had on Monday, perhaps surprisingly, but it’s a close thing. 

“You know where I _live_?” he says, before Damian can do more than open his mouth, then shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly. “No, wait, don’t answer that, I’m sure Dr. Wayne knows, that’s not… _that_ weird. Why are you here at 7 A.M., though?”

It’s at this point that Damian truly begins to regret everything he’s ever done.

Well, that’s probably a _slight_ overstatement. He clears his throat, then thrusts the paper bag out in front of him like a shield or possibly a peace offering. “Donuts,” he says by way of explanation, and honestly, the fact that he manages something that isn’t monosyllabic feels like a victory. _God_ , this is embarrassing. One of these days he’s going to need to get a conclusive answer to why standing this close to Drake (they are separated by perhaps two feet, and in the crispness of the morning Damian could swear he can feel the warmth radiating off of him, though perhaps that’s just the hint of color on his cheekbones) makes him forget that he has even a passing familiarity with language and/or rational thought.

For his part, though, Drake seems to be struggling as well. “I… thank you?” he finally gets out, after a few long seconds of wordless confusion. “Uh. Thank you. That’s. Nice of you?”

Damian nods stiffly and considers setting this whole godforsaken university on fire. He’d consider all of Gotham, for that matter, but a major metropolitan area seems a bit ambitious, even for him.

Drake winces a little, then heaves a sigh. “All right, that’s it, I’ll bite,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning one shoulder against his doorway. The way his hair falls across his forehead when he does it makes something twitch in Damian’s chest cavity in a way that makes him distinctly uncomfortable. “Are you… what are you doing? Um, no offense, normally I’d be a little nicer about this, but it’s 7 A.M., so -- I kind of thought you hated me?”

All right, well, Damian probably deserved that. And what’s more, he’d been expecting it, but somehow the pre-planned answer about turning over a new leaf dies on his tongue and he’s left glaring at a point in space somewhere north of Drake’s -- of _Timothy’s_ , he supposes, if this conversation is about to go where the shrieking death call of his instinct for self-preservation suggests it’s about to go -- right shoulder, because at this point looking at his face would _certainly_ spell disaster.

“I’d like to take you to dinner,” Damian informs him, clipped but all in a rush, and slightly strangled toward the end. Part of him instantly wants to yank the words back and stuff them back down in the corners of his mind where they belong, but, well. If Timothy’s gobsmacked expression is anything to go by, it’s far, far too late for that now.

“Dinner,” he repeats vaguely, a tiny frown appearing between his eyebrows, and despite himself, Damian’s stomach twists. He nods, though, and swallows, rather than saying anything _else_ he might be better advised to keep quiet about.

There’s a long, awkward silence, where Timothy squints slightly at him and Damian counts the bricks that make up the perimeter of his doorway (seventy-one), the different books he can see just in the tiny sliver of house in his view (eleven, counting the two peeking out of Timothy’s battered backpack where it’s lying in the entryway), the seconds before Timothy opens his mouth again (ninety-seven).

“Let me just make sure I’m getting this,” he says slowly, and Damian’s shoulders square up automatically, his gaze finally, reluctantly coming back to Timothy’s face, to meet his too-blue eyes. “You brought me donuts at seven in the morning, before class, because you want to ask me to dinner, despite the fact that the majority of our previous interactions seem to point to you hating me?”

“Yes,” Damian replies, and maybe he’s finally exhausted his stock of mortification for this particular morning, because it comes out sounding almost confident.

Timothy examines him for several more long seconds, then finally, _finally_ reaches out to actually take the bag of donuts. He peers inside, and then deft, slender hands reach in to carefully grab one, little bits of cinnamon-sugar dusting his fingertips.

He looks back up and smiles, and Damian’s heart does a funny little twist. “How about six o’clock Friday?” he asks, and everything is suddenly that much lighter.

“I’ll -- yes,” Damian replies, resisting the urge to reach in for a handshake. Should he say “thank you”? It doesn’t really feel appropriate, but he should say _something_. “I’ll… be seeing you in class.”

And that’s when Timothy finally cracks a smile. “See you in class,” he replies, then carefully shuts the door. Damian stands there, stock-still, until he’s almost breathing normally again, which… takes longer than he’ll ever admit to anyone.

It’s not until he’s almost back to his car before he realizes Dick is never going to let him hear the end of this.


End file.
